My Rules (Kingston Lane Book 2)
My Rules: Chapter 3

“Well, what are you going to do?” Chloe flops onto the couch and rests her face on her hand.

“I don’t know.” I fill our glasses of wine. “Maybe I shouldn’t even go for the house. I mean, what’s the point if I can’t afford it anyway.”

“You can’t let him have it out of principle,” Chloe huffs. “Get it, and then if you have to, you can sell it, but no way in hell is that dickhead living here when you can’t.”

“He wouldn’t even want to live here anymore,” I reply. “He and Blake would kill each other.”

“Exactly. The very first thing he would do is sell it. He only wants it because it means something to you.”

“The bastard is weaponizing my house.” I pass her the wineglass and take a seat beside her, curling my legs up beneath me.

“He’s trying to manipulate you; that’s what he’s doing. He thinks he can force you to go back to him.” She sips her wine. “Five years with no divorce? Get fucked, asshole.”

I smile. There’s only one thing better than listening to myself rave on about John, and it’s listening to my friends do it. I don’t think there has ever been a more hated man on earth. He’s Kingston Lane’s public enemy number one.

“So he thinks he can move you here, away from all your family and friends, screw his secretary for eighteen months behind your back, get caught, and then bribe you to not divorce him.”

My eyebrows flick up. “Sounds really bad when you say it out loud.”

“That’s because it is really bad. He’s such a selfish asshole that I can’t stand it.”

I exhale heavily and sip my wine.

“What did Juliet say?”

“I haven’t seen her yet. She’s worked all weekend.”

“Well, Blake is going to go postal.”

“Do not tell Blake,” I warn her. “He came over last night for dinner, and I didn’t say a word. I am not in the mood for one of his lectures.”

“He’s just being a good friend.”

“You know he’s overbearing when it comes to John.”

She gets up, goes to the window, and peers through the curtains at the boys playing golf. “Still fine as fuck, though.”

I roll my eyes. “I thought you were all in love with Oliver?”

“I am.” She keeps watching the boys. “I’m taken, not dead.” She smiles. “There isn’t a woman on earth who doesn’t replace Blake Grayson totally irresistible.”

I raise my hand. “Me.”

“Admittedly”—she raises her wineglass toward me—“you are the exception.”

“Back to my lack of finances. What am I going to do?” I sigh, uninterested.

Chloe continues to peer through the curtains as she studies the boys some more. “The only thing you can do.”

“Which is?”

“Open an OnlyFans.”

Chloe and I carefully walk down my front steps with our trays of food. Chloe made chicken satay skewers, and I made a large potato bake and some fried rice. We each have a bottle of wine under our arms as well. The boys are on their putting green; I still can’t believe we have a golf green in the middle of our cul-de-sac.

“Nooo,” the boys collectively cry as Antony sinks a golf ball into the hole.

“Fluke,” Henley yells.

“You guys coming over?” I call as we walk past them to Carol’s.

“In a minute,” Blake calls as he picks up the putter. “Just got to show these losers who’s boss.” He sticks his tongue out to concentrate as he lines up to the ball.

We walk down the road and up Carol’s front steps.

“Come in, my loves,” Carol calls.

We walk in to replace her in her apron, bent over and peering into her oven. “This damn oven is acting up.”

“Let’s get the party started, people,” Taryn laughs as she walks through the door. She’s in a skintight hot-pink tube dress and carrying a huge-ass cooler.

How does she look so hot in everything she wears? “What the hell is in there?” I frown.

“Party punch. Here, help me,” she replies.

I take one end of the cooler from her, and we struggle into the kitchen. “This thing weighs a ton.”

“Put it down in here.”

Clunk. We drop it with a thud, and she opens the lid to pull out a giant glass punch bowl and ladle. “I make the best party punch in the history of life.” She pulls out a few two-liter bottles of an orange liquid and begins to fill the punch bowl.

“If you do say so yourself.” I laugh.

“Exactly.” Once the punch bowl is full, she pours in a container of chopped-up fruit. “Get a glass,” she instructs me.

“In here, dear.” Carol opens the top cupboard and retrieves some tall glasses. “A big punch bowl deserves big glasses.” She passes me one, and Taryn fills it to the very top.

Yeesh . . . that’s a lot of punch.

I take a slow sip. It’s orangey and lemony, and wow, I’m pleasantly surprised. I lick my lips to really taste it. “This is delicious, Taryn. Doesn’t even taste alcoholic.”

“I told you so.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Who else wants one?” she calls.

“Me, please.” Chloe holds out her glass. Taryn fills it and one for herself, then Carol too.

Loud, boisterous laughter comes bellowing through the front door as the boys arrive.

“Hello, my boys.” Carol kisses their cheeks as they walk in.

“Here she is, my favorite.” Blake smiles as he hugs her.

“Hello, sweetheart.” She smiles and holds his two cheeks in her hands as she stares up at his face. Henley and Antony follow behind, along with Winston.

Antony and Winston are overly boisterous; their cheeks are rosy, and it’s obvious they’ve already had a few too many beverages.

“I made us punch,” Taryn announces proudly. “Do you want some?”

Henley picks up a glass. “Sure do.”

Three hours later

We clap fast as we sing “Happy Birthday” at the top of our voices. Winston jumps up onto the couch and rips off his T-shirt, twirling it around like a lasso above his head as we all squeal in excitement.

My stomach is sore from laughing; this was just what I needed.

Such a fun night.

Eating, dancing, good friends, laughter, and I’ve come to a conclusion: there’s no way in hell that I can ever move out of this street.

I don’t know how, but I’m going to replace a way to afford it . . . I have to.

Blake

Boom, boom, boom.

The pounding of my head wakes me, and I bring my two hands to my forehead to try and get some relief.

“Oh . . .” I screw up my face. “Ow . . .”

I open one eye and then the other. Wait . . . Where am I? My eyes flick around to see I’m in the spare bedroom of my house.

Why did I sleep in here?

I lean up onto my elbows and look around, confused. Wait, what?

I lie back down as I troll my brain for a memory. I was dancing . . . then . . .

That’s it.

What happened after that? I blink as I try my hardest to remember something.

Boom, boom, boom thumps my head.

Fuck, I need some Advil.

I drag myself out of bed and glance down at my naked body.

I see my jeans crumpled up on the floor and look around for my T-shirt or underwear; both are nowhere to be seen.

Huh?

I struggle to pull on my jeans and stumble down the hall to see that my bedroom door is closed.

Someone’s sleeping in there.

I quietly knock on the door. No answer. I tentatively push it open to see my bed is empty and still made from yesterday.

I screw up my face in question. What?

Hmm . . . that doesn’t make sense. Why would I sleep in the spare room if nobody was in my bed?

Weird.

I have no idea what’s going on around here.

I make my way downstairs as I search for a semblance of a memory. How on earth did I get so messed up?

Hazy visions of dancing on Carol’s couch float through my mind.

Wait . . .

I drag my hand down my face. Ugh . . . How was I so drunk? I fill a glass of water and go to the medicine cabinet. I pour some Advil into my hand and throw them into my mouth.

I wince as I feel them go all the way down.

Seriously, my headache is so bad. I’m probably having an aneurysm or some shit.

Bzzzzz buzz . . . buzz bzzzzz.

My phone vibrates on the kitchen counter, and the name Henley lights up the screen.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Are you alive?” his croaky voice whispers.

“Barely.” I close my eyes. “But I suspect the end is near.”

“Hell . . .”

“How did . . .” I frown. “I don’t even remember getting home.”

“Me neither. Jules said she found me asleep in our front garden when she got back from work.”

“What time was that?” I frown as I try to retrace our steps.

“I don’t know, midnight.”

“What were we drinking?”

“Taryn’s punch.”

“Hell.” I drag my hand through my hair. “How’s Deluca?”

“Not answering his phone.”

“Go check on him. He’s probably dead.”

“Based on the way I feel, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

My stomach rolls, and I dry retch over the sink. “This is a fucking code-red hangover.” I heave again. “What the hell was in that punch?”

“Who knows.”

Holding my stomach, I lean my behind against the kitchen counter and feel something dig into me from the back pocket of my jeans. I reach my hand in and pull something out. It’s a pale-blue flash drive.

I stare at it. “What the hell is this?”

“What are you talking about?” Henley replies.

“There’s a flash drive in the pocket of my jeans.”

“What’s on it?”

“I don’t know.” I walk to the hall and glance in the mirror, and my eyes widen in horror when I see my reflection.

There’s a giant love bite on my neck.

What the fuck?

I turn my head to the side as I stare at the dark-purple bruise. My mind begins to race. Who did this?

“What’s on the flash drive?” Henley repeats.

“Who cares? I’ve got a bigger problem than a stupid fucking flash drive.” I drag my hand down my face in disgust. “Who the hell did I hook up with last night?”

“What?”

“I have a giant-ass hickey on my neck.”

“From who?”

“That’s what I would like to fucking know,” I snap.

“Well, nobody else was there, and you didn’t leave to go anywhere . . . so that can only mean one thing.”

“Which is?”

“You hooked up with someone from Kingston Lane.”

My eyes widen in horror.

“Surely not.”

The sun beams red through my closed eyelids.

“Pass me another bottle of water, will you?” Ant says from the deck chair beside me.

“Another?”

“Yes. Another,” he grunts.

I reach into the cooler, rattle around in the ice, dig out a bottle of water, and pass it over.

We’re dying a slow and painful death by the pool, in the depths of hangover hell.

My phone beeps a text.

Can someone set my house on fire?

I read it and chuckle.

“What?” Ant looks over at me as he squints into the sun.

“Hen wants us to set his house on fire so that he doesn’t need a couch.”

Ant smirks as he sips his water. Juliet’s on a mission to buy a new couch, and much to Henley’s disdain, she’s dragged him around the shops for hours.

Ant closes his eyes and puts his hands up beneath his head. “Any memory of who you railed yet?”

“No, but . . .” I sip my water. “I’ve come to the conclusion that it couldn’t have been anyone exciting if I’ve forgotten it.”

“Fair point.” His eyebrows rise. “And what were they doing with a flash drive?”

I glance over at him. “You think the flash drive was from the person who gave me the hickey?”

“Obviously.” He shrugs. “Why else would you have it?”

“True.” I think this over for a moment. “So theoretically, all I have to do is look on the flash drive and it should tell me.”

“Uh-huh.” Ant’s eyes are closed as he worships the sun. “The question is, though, do you really want to know?”

I let out a deep sigh. “Probably not.”

“It has to be Taryn.”

I scrunch my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. “It better not be.”

“I hope it’s Carol.” He smiles into the sun. “That would make my life complete if you gave the sausage to Carol.”

I roll my eyes.

“Maybe you screwed Winston.”

“Fuck off.” I throw my bottle of water at him, disgusted by the thought. “When we get back to my house, we’re looking on that stupid flash drive.”

“Fifty bucks it’s Taryn.” He glances over to me. “Who you betting?”

I wince as I go over the choices. “If it’s Taryn, I’m moving houses.”

“Yeah, because it’s not going to be awkward seeing her every day.”

“Just shut the fuck up.”

A message bounces in from Henley.

S. O. S.

The thought of him being dragged around the shops brings a smile to my face. “This is why we are never getting married. Can’t even have a hangover in peace.”

“Amen to that.”

Four hours later

“Okay.” I plug the flash drive into my desktop computer. “Let’s go.”

Henley and Antony are lying on my couch.

Rocket Cock

I sit back in my chair, shocked. “Rocket Cock—what the hell is Rocket Cock?”

“What?” Henley calls from the other room.

“Something on here about a Rocket Cock?” I call.

They both dive off the couch and come to look over my shoulder at the computer screen.

When Brodie McAlister investigates a noise in her garage, the last thing she expects to replace is a seven-foot-tall green alien.

Huge and muscular, he towers over her.

“Huh?” I screw up my face. “The hell is this?”

Two huge green cocks hang between his legs.

My eyes widen as the boys burst out laughing. “What the fuck is this shit?” I cry.

His balls are the size of baseballs, and as he stares at me with hunger, his weeping cocks begin to grow.

“Who the hell wrote this?” I cry in outrage.

“Looks like you slept with an alien last night, bro.” Antony slaps me on the back.

“How were his two cocks?” Henley replies. “So convenient, one for your asshole and one for your mouth.”

The boys chuckle.

“You’re hilarious,” I huff. “I have no idea about any of this crap.”

“Sure you don’t. Why was it in your back door . . . I mean, pocket?” Henley corrects himself.

“Bit sore today, bud?” Antony replies. “I did notice you were walking odd.”

Henley laughs and steps backward, tripping and stumbling, making Antony laugh harder.

“Very funny,” I mutter as I scroll down in search of a clue. “Who wrote this shit?”

Knock, knock.

“Someone’s at the door,” I snap, annoyed. Now is not the time. “Go. Away.”

“Might be him.”

“Shut. Up.”

Knock, knock.

“Fuck it.” I run into the bathroom, grab a towel, and wrap it around my neck.

Nobody can see this.

Rebecca

I stand and wait at Blake’s front door. I know he’s home; I saw him come over from Antony’s earlier. I knock again.

The door opens in a rush, and Blake comes into view. He seems surprised to see me. “Rebecca.” He smiles; he has a towel around his neck.

“Are you going swimming?” I ask.

“What?” He wraps the towel tighter around his neck. What is he doing with that towel?

“The towel.”

“Oh . . . yes.”

I hear Henley and Antony’s loud laughter coming from inside. “Am I interrupting something?” I ask.

“Not at all.” Blake glances inside to where the laughter is coming from, then steps out onto the front porch and closes the door behind him. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to talk about last night.” I twist my hands in front of me nervously.

“What about last night?” he replies quickly.

“I just wanted to thank you for being so honest. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

His eyes widen. “Honest . . .”

“Yeah.” I smile. “When you told me about your old girlfriend and what she did.”

Blake’s eyes narrow as he stares at me. “Go on . . .”

“And . . .” Ugh, he’s not making this easy for me. “I just . . . I think I want to do it.”

“Right . . .” He frowns as his eyes hold mine.

“Well, not that I want to, but I feel that I need to.”

“Oh . . . kay.”

“But I don’t want anyone to know. You have to promise to keep it a secret.”

He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again before he does.

Loud laughter erupts from inside his house.

“What’s so funny in there?” I frown.

“Um . . .” He drags his hand down his face. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you, anyway . . . so, this secret.”

“Yeah, if you could help me, I would really appreciate it. I mean, I know how busy you are, and to fit this in every day is a big ask.”

He blinks as if processing my words.

“Aren’t you hot in that towel?”

“Nope, I’m cold.” He grips it harder.

“So . . .” I pause. “Do you think we could start tonight? I just want to stop overthinking this and get started before I can chicken out.”

“Um . . .” He pauses.

Laughter erupts again from inside.

“Are they still drunk?”

“No doubt,” he stammers. “Listen, Bec.” He twists his lips as if thinking. “We had so many conversations last night. Remind me what we are talking about again?”

“Foot Finder.”

He screws up his face. “What about it?”

“Remember you told me that your girlfriend from college used to upload pictures of her feet to Foot Finder and get a few hundred dollars every week from it, and nobody ever knew?”

His mouth falls open. “Oh . . .”

“I know this is extreme, but I’m going to have to move if I don’t replace an extra eight hundred dollars a week.”

“Right. Okay, now I’m on board.” He nods. “You can definitely upload pictures of your feet. Weirdos pay big money for hot little feet like yours.”

“But they can never replace out it’s me, can they? Like, I’m not going to have some serial killer come and replace me and chop my feet off, am I?”

“I sincerely hope not.”

“You said last night that you can take the daily photos for me. Will that be a hassle for you, though?”

“Looking at your feet and hot legs could never be a hassle.”

I smile, relieved. “So we can start tonight?”

“Yes.” He thinks for a moment. “Where did you sleep last night?”

“Very funny.” I smirk.

“Is it?”

“Oh my god, I bet Taryn is feeling it.”

Confusion flashes across his face. “Feeling what, exactly?”

“Oh my god, Blake, stop.” I smile. “You’re such a tease.”

Laughter erupts inside again. “Listen, I have to go,” he stammers in a fluster. “I’ll be over later.”

“Remember, nobody can ever know about this,” I remind him.

“Of course not.”

He disappears inside, and I smile in relief. That wasn’t half as embarrassing as I thought it was going to be. Blake is the only one I would trust to help me with this. He’s the most unjudgy person I know, and besides . . . he knows what images will sell. If anyone knows porn, it’s him.

We start this tonight, and tomorrow, I tell John to stop paying my bills.

He can go to hell.

I’ve cleaned my house until you could eat off the floor, and suddenly I’m feeling reinvigorated. This is it; this is the answer I’ve been searching for.

Sell a few anonymous foot pictures, and voilà, the house is saved.

I smile as I buzz around with a spring in my step. Things are looking up.

Right at eight, knock, knock.

I open the door to see Blake standing on my porch with his big fancy camera.

“Hello.” I smile.

“Hi.”

“Why are you wearing a scarf?”

“I’ve got a stiff neck and need to keep it warm.”

“Oh . . .” I frown. “When did you do that?”

“Last night.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Professional Foot Finder at your service.” He dips his head as he walks past me, and I giggle.

“Is this crazy?”

“Totally.” He looks around my house. “Listen, I was thinking you should be naked for these photos.”

“I knew you were going to say that.” I smirk. “Upstairs, pervert.” I head to the stairs, and he follows me up. “So, how does this work?”

“I was googling it before I came over. I think we set up a profile, pick a name for you, and upload a few shots. Then people subscribe or something, and they get access. And if you want, you can charge for specials or whatever.”

I walk into my bedroom. “Specials—what does that mean?”

“People can request things and pay extra for it.”

“Like what?” I frown.

“I don’t know, fucking ice cream on your toes or some shit.” He flops onto my bed and lies across it.

“Why would anyone want to see ice cream on my toes?” I frown, horrified.

“Why would anyone jerk off to a photo of a foot is the question,” he mutters dryly.

“You think they’re jerking off to this?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Eeewww.” I screw up my face in disgust.

“Who fucking cares? Just show us the cash is what I say.” He begins to scroll on his phone. “I’m going to join.”

“What? Why?”

“Because then I can spy on our competitors and see what kind of photos they’re uploading. Who’s the highest-grossing model and stuff like that.”

“What kind of photos they’re uploading—what does that even mean?”

“I don’t know, but if you need a cock in your photos, I volunteer mine,” he replies, distracted by his phone.

I roll my eyes as I begin to get my stilettos out of my closet. “I will not need a cock in my photos. Didn’t you learn anything from Michael’s demise?”

“Apparently not.” He reads on his phone. “And besides, he’s a loser. It says here you need a profile name.”

“Hmm.” I keep retrieving all my shoes. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, something sexy, I guess.” He thinks for a moment. “What about Pinkie Hoe?”

“What?” I screw up my face.

“You know, instead of Pinkie Toe—Pinkie Hoe.”

“Oh my god,” I scoff. “That is the worst name of all time.”

“Sole Sucker?” He shrugs.

“Sole Sucker?”

“You know, the sole of your foot, and it sucks.”

“If you think a foot should suck, you’re perverted.”

“The evidence does suggest that.”

“Can we add the name bit later?”

“Yeah, I guess. It has to be good. We really need to nail the name.”

“Hmm.” I put my hands on my hips. “Okay, so what do we do now?”

“Ahh.” He sits up and looks around. “Let’s start with some naked foot photos, I guess.”

“You mean just feet photos?”

“Naked sounds better.” He smiles.

“How do you want me?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that to me for years now.”

“Will you behave?” I smirk. “Are you ever serious?”

“Not if I can help it.” He gets down onto the floor and lies on his back as he holds his big, chunky camera toward me. “Walk toward me.”

I slowly walk toward him, and he begins to snap away.

“Turn back around and walk the other way.” He keeps taking photos. “Now step over me.”

“You’re not taking photos of my vagina, Blake.”

“That plan worked perfectly in my head.” He keeps snapping away. “Curl your toes up as if they are wrapped around a cock.”

“What?”

He chuckles as he keeps taking photos while lying on his back. “I think I’m going to love this job.”